Alive
by amandabandanna
Summary: Sherlock takes a great fall.


**DISCLAIMER: I do not own Sherlock, John, or BBC. This is my first fic, so please forgive any errors. Critiques and reviews welcome. :) Enjoy.**

_Any italics note either thoughts or onomatopoeia.  
_

"This phone call… It's uh. It's my note. That's what people do, don't they? Leave a note."  
"Leave a note when?"  
"Goodbye John."

As he pulled the phone from his ear, he heard a faint, "No, don't," ring from it. He took a deep breath, tossed aside the phone, and looked up from his perch. He raised his arms straight out and leaned forward.

And for a split second, he felt euphoric. He was weightless. He was flying. He stomach was in his throat. There was nothing to worry about. Mrs. Hudson would be saved. Lestrade would be saved. And John. John…

His breath caught and instinct kicked in as he flailed his arms, his survival sense desperately grasping for something to hold onto. He understood that it was impossible for him to live as the ground rushed up at him.

Then everything stopped. Pain washed over his body like a tidal wave. His head swam. He couldn't move. Everything hurt.

And then nothing did. Time stopped. He faintly recognized a group of people surrounding him, grabbing at him, shaking him, checking his pulse. There was John, but he was frozen. Everyone was. The cars had stopped. And there was a deafening silence.

Then he heard something strange. His head was still swimming, not allowing him to quite grasp what was happening, but there was a distinct sound now filling the silence.

_Clack. Clack. Clack. _

_Shoes, _he was able to mentally note. _No. Heels. Walking. Someone was walking. _

A figure appeared above him. It crouched down to get a better look.

"My my my…. You've suffered a great fall, haven't you, my child?" She brushed a hand against his damaged forehead, stirring the dark curls away from his wounds. "Goodness, how you've suffered." Her voice was soft, forgiving, and sympathetic. Sherlock turned his head around much to the chagrin of his mind. Swirling in his head like a violent whirlpool, it took him a minute to register the face hovering above his. Clear blue eyes shone into his. They were strange, unearthly, and almost fluorescent.

"But everything's alright now, my child. It's time to go home." She smiled, the corners of her eyes crinkling with a touch of sadness.

"I… I'm not done." Sherlock managed to choke out, in fear of the searing pain from his lungs he had expected. However, he was surprised it hadn't hurt and that it was safe to speak.

"Not done what?" The eyes danced with curiosity.

"I'm not done suffering."

She was taken aback by this statement, and then let loose a soft chuckle.

"What…?" He tried to contort his body towards her to examine her stance, try and read her rather than let her answer. He found despite the lack of pain he felt, he couldn't move. Nothing hurt, yet nothing worked.

"You're the second person to say that to me."

"Who was the first?" He spout out like a knee-jerk reaction.

"A young army doctor." She looked at him, absentmindedly stroking his hair. She gave a sly smile and continued on. "I came to him ages ago. He had been shot in the shoulder, dangerously close to his heart. He was bleeding out and by all intents and purposes, he should have died."

"Why didn't he?" Sherlock prodded like a child being told a bedtime story.

"Because he told me he wasn't done suffering, like you did just now. All his life this young man had sacrificed himself, selflessly helping others. And then, he was shot and was experiencing pain beyond belief. When I offered him a release, escape from the agony, he told me no. That he hadn't finished suffering. Of course, I was shocked. Never had I been told they were 'done suffering.' Always it was, 'I don't want to go,' or, 'I'm not done,' or, 'What about my family?' Never, 'I'm not finished suffering.'" She was looking off into the distance still running her fingers through Sherlock's hair. Her eyes reflected her memories. She then glanced down at the man that lay in her lap. "You're going to hurt."

"I don't care." He promptly replied.

"You'll have nightmares."

"I don't sleep."

"Your mind will never be the same." This made him pause.

"What does that mean?"

She chuckled again. "I imagine for you, my child, that will make you normal." He joined her in the brief laugh.

He swallowed hard. _What if you can't deduce? _Thoughts began to race through his mind. _What if you become boring? Or worse. What if you become normal?_ He pondered on that last thought.

_My God, how wonderful life would be._

"I'll do it on one condition." She interrupted his thoughts.

"What is it?" he responded only slightly annoyed.

She cocked a sharp, thin eyebrow at him. "Strange. I thought for a moment you'd react like him."

The silence quickly answered the "who" she was referring to.

"How… How did he react?" Sherlock stammered out.

"He said that he'd do anything. Anything to continue on with the inevitable pain that awaited him. I told him he had to promise me two things. One, that he would help somebody. Not medically, that was too easy. He had to help someone emotionally. Mentally. That should be an appropriate enough challenge for him."

"And the second thing?"

"He had to promise to be happy." The silence between this odd pairing slowly returned as Sherlock considered what she said.

_Was John… Happy?_

"So, my child. I pose the same deal to you. You must promise me two things." They connected eyes and his focus snapped from his thoughts to the serious eyes above him. "You have lived your life constantly helping people. However, ninety-eight percent of the time you've done this to benefit yourself: Satisfy the need to solve something, gain a free meal, obtain information, etcetera. Now, you must help someone selflessly. You've got a jump start already." She chuckled at the bad joke and Sherlock's eyes widened. "Second," she barked, "You must be happy. No point in my sparing you if you go back to being your normal, miserably insufferable self. Be happy, Sherlock." She looked down at him and smiled caringly.

"No person can be expected to be happy at all waking hours," he argued.

"Yes. This is true. But you can't be unhappy at all waking hours either. Make an effort, my child. It will be worth it."

"I just have one question." Sherlock tread carefully with his next words. He was, after all, arguing with the woman who had his life in her hands.

"What is it?" She asked, honestly curious.

"Can I help the person who helped me?"

She smiled even wider at him. Wickedness danced at the edges of her lips. She took in a deep breath and nodded. "I suppose that should be fine." She leaned down and softly pressed her lips to his forehead.

And the tide of pain returned. Voices, car horns, and ambulance sirens swam around his head. People began moving again as his vision blurred. His body was turned by one of the group that had gathered around him and he could see John standing over him. Behind John he saw what he thought to be the woman who had just spoken to him. She turned and walked away, the soft clacking of her heels hovering in the air behind her.

His mind swirled more violently than before. He could feel his heart slowing. His lungs burned as his breaths became more and more spaced and subdued. His eyes darted to John as everything became one blur of color.

And then darkness settled upon him.


End file.
